


The inescapable truth

by JaqofSpades



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M, nsfw fic meme, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hits him the same way it always does, a swelling symphony of Bass, Bass, Bass.  Rough-gentle hands, and the concern flaring in too-blue eyes.  The smell of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The inescapable truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AvaRosier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/gifts).



> Written for the nsfw fic meme on tumblr, to ava rosier's prompt Miloe #9: … confessing a fetish.

The President, that smarmy fucker Neville tells him, will be with him shortly. Miles resists the urge to behead the bastard and settles into one of Bass' fancy chairs to wait. He's been on campaign for two months solid, and he's starting to nod off by the time Bass strolls in from where ever the fuck he was doing his Presidential bullshit.

"General Matheson," Bass says coolly, and Miles returns the silent fuck you by refusing to get up. He hasn't forgotten who carved this sick little kingdom out of the remnants of the Blackout, even if Bass has. There's a lot of things he's making himself forget, but this isn't gonna be one of them.

"Baltimore secure. 200, maybe 220 or so of theirs. 38 of ours. More civilians than I would have liked," he reports, then pushes himself out of the chair.

He and Bass both see the blood staining the seat at the same time.

Bass is in front of him in seconds, yanking the shirt free of his trousers, probing hands sliding over him even before Miles can process whether or not it's his own blood.

"Fuck off," he reacts, slapping those too-familiar hands away. He's not quick enough, though, and it hits him the same way it always does, a swelling symphony of Bass, Bass, Bass. Rough-gentle hands, and the concern flaring in too-blue eyes. The smell of him.

It breaks over him like a wave, and they're 18 again, joking around in y-fronts and wifebeaters on top of the machines as they do laundry for the first time, two weeks into Basic. Ocean Escape, it was called, that tacky green bottle, the innards an unlikely shade of fluorescent green. He remembers sniffing at it, calling it girly. It wasn't 'til the first time they got back he realises it's become his favourite smell in the world - clean clothes, home. Bass.

(Letting the machine shake him free as it lurches into the spin cycle, and casually checking outside to see if anyone's around. Watching Bass read, and wondering if he's about to make the biggest mistake of his goddamn life. Their eyes meeting, and holding the stare. He can't even remember who moved first, now.)

Miles turns his face into Bass' sleeve and lets his eyes close for a moment, sinking into scent and memory alike.

"I sent a team down to Parris' Island," Bass says idly. "The armoury was a bust, but ..."

(They'd knocked the bottle flying. Bright green ooze, all over the floor. The smell of it rising around them as they stood there, forehead to forehead, hip to hip, feet overlapping. Mouths opening slowly, helplessly, crippled by disbelief and shock and inevitability. Then fast. Hungry.)

"... the storeroom was still piled high."

Miles jerks his head up and curses himself as their eyes collide. He can't do this now. He doesn't want to see Bass in the President's cold, blue eyes. Doesn't want to remember the boundaries they'd ignored, one after the other: Best friend. Brother. Lover.

General. President. Madman, he reminds himself, but it still doesn't kill the lust twisting in his belly. The need that boils under his skin every time he draws breath. Or the fact that Bass is remembering too, stepping closer, rough-gentle hands moving with a very different purpose now.

"What do you see, brother?" Bass purrs into his ear, and he knows, he knows exactly what's happening in the porno reel running inside Miles' head. 

(The entire room stinking of synthetic oceans as they sink to the floor. Bass pushing himself up onto hands and knees, sliding in the goo as he begged. How scared he'd been, no fucking idea how this was supposed to work, but completely overpowered by the need to bite and lick and taste and please this person he loved more than anyone else in the entire fucking universe.)

"A fucking megalomaniac," Miles reminds himself, refusing to breathe. "Who chose to sit here while he sent his men to die."

Bass pushes him away with a curse and jackboots his way over the drinks table. Is that new, the way his hand shakes as he splashes whiskey into the glass? 

"You forget yourself, General Matheson. Luckily for you, I'm in a generous mood. And I don't trust Neville to run the entire fucking army just yet."

Don't trust me, Miles wants to beg. Not today. 

("Please, Miles," Bass had keened. "Just - please. I trust you." And he knows they should have stuff for this, shouldn't do it lightly, but they're Miles and Bass and fuck, spit will have to do because every time Miles even so much as breathes on that tight ring of flesh, Bass starts to beg. So he licks and sucks and fucks the man with his tongue until his fingers can slide inside, and then, and then ... the whole fucking world changed. Who he was, and who they were. Right there, on the laundry room floor, slipping and sliding and hands and cocks and an avalanche of feelings neither of them knew how to handle.)

Still didn't.

"Permission to speak freely, Sir."

"Granted."

"Fuck you, Bass."

"Is this you finally admitting that you have a thing for laundry detergent? That good old-fashioned Tide does wicked things for the mighty General Matheson?"

Rage nearly drives away the lust burning in his gut. This is them he's mocking. Their past together. Their start. And the Bass he knew ... this isn't him. He wouldn't.

The knowledge drops like a noose around his neck. Time to kiss the past goodbye.

"It did once. These days ... smells off. Corrupt."

He straightens up and presents his demands one last time.

"Get rid of fucking Strausser. Let Nora go. Send Rachel back to Ben."

It doesn't sound like he's begging, but he's dragging Ocean Escape into his lungs, and praying his brother (best friend, lover) will say yes. Agree to let them go. Let him crawl into bed tonight, and drown in clean, and home, and Bass, one last time.

But the General stares back, unflinching, and the next time they meet?

It will be the smell of gunpowder that gets him hard.

_fin_


End file.
